8 a.m. poolside, two women rolling
cigarettes like a production
line. This hotel full of Russians
with grapefruit-hard stomachs
and bar tabs the length of my tax
return. Impossible not to envy
them, their skin thieving all light
from the Calangute sun, their immoveable
solitude. How they command language –
menus, signage, entire beach-side
restaurants. Evidence of their exodus
parcelled and steamed in breakfast
bain-maries. I find myself stunned
by their feet. I swim beneath
those twinned fish underbellies,
their only sunless extremity,
then watch more check in over strong
G&Ts, turning my page idly, and lower
dark glasses over my face as high noon
sharpens in their gold chains.
